


Death is the Abandonment Caused by Fidelity

by Anonymous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Jim Moriarty - Freeform, Lots of angst if I wrote this reasonably well, Love Confessions, M/M, No Actual Character Death, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson - Freeform, Suicidal Thoughts, but I promise there isn't, it's really going to look like it, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-13 12:42:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11185368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “Really dearest, I’m rather offended. Your pet’s stupidity is to be expected, but I didn’t think you would underestimate me so severely. I’m not going to make him kill you—I’m not going to make him do anything at all. I’m going to give him a choice. There is one bullet in that gun, and he decides whether to use it to end you, or himself.“Just one condition . . . before the pet decides, you my dear have fifteen minutes to use your sexy voice to magic him into making the choice you desire. Only don’t be boring, or there will be penalties.”





	1. The Choice

**Author's Note:**

> The "I'll die for you trope" is well worn (and I have lots of affection for it), but I wanted to explore the possibility of a reversal occurring not in spite of but precisely because of the intensity of one character's love for the other. It might inevitably be a bit OOC, but I've enjoyed writing it so far!
> 
> The remaining chapters will be significantly shorter. The meat of the story is in chapter 1, but I want to spend some time exploring the aftermath in the next two.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: Suicidal Thoughts

Death is the abandonment caused not by betrayal but by fidelity.  
― Jeanne Safer

Sherlock’s brain feels abnormally fuzzy as he stumbles towards consciousness, and his physical sensations are curiously impaired. Drugged, he realizes. That’s . . . unexpected. Best not to betray his wakefulness just yet, then. 

The first thing he observes is quick, ragged breathing. John’s breathing. Something is clearly wrong, and Sherlock nearly opens his eyes at once, but he forces himself to remain still. John being here could be excellent or rather horrible, depending on the circumstances, but at any rate it is now a great deal more than twice as essential that Sherlock makes himself useful as possible. 

Next is the rather overpowering smell of chlorine, and the gently echoing lap of water against concrete. An indoor pool. The pool? Either way, despite the disappointing repetitiousness, probably Moriarty. Moriarty. Repetition. John. Okay, definitely not good that John is here. Very not good. In spite of himself Sherlock does tense this time, but if anyone is watching they remain silent. 

Breathing deep and even, Sherlock takes stock of his own state. The mental and physical inhibitions are fading rapidly, so there will likely be no permanent damage from the drugs. That’s good, at any rate. Rather less good is the realization accompanying his returning sensation: he is most definitely tied hand and foot to a rather stiff wooden chair. 

Failing to pick up other pertinent details, and with John’s uneven breaths raking at his nerves, Sherlock opens his eyes. John is staring at him with dilated pupils and a face so white that Sherlock, despite his initial resolution to stay as still as possible in hopes of prolonging the farce of sleep, instantly barks: “Alright?”

John flinches, but doesn’t respond. It doesn’t much matter, however, as Sherlock has already reached his own conclusions. John’s wide eyes are fixated on Sherlock’s forehead, the implications of which are not difficult to deduce given the surrounding circumstances. No quavering red dot is visible on John’s person, which means little but feels comforting nonetheless. Far more puzzling is the fact that, although seated stiffly in a wooden chair which presumably resembles the one to which Sherlock is tied, John is unbound. It is the gun that explains matters. It isn’t John’s, and despite his general comfort with the weapon John is holding it like something alien, pointing it towards the ground with a visibly trembling hand. 

Sherlock’s heart begins to pound, but to his own surprise he has to hide a smirk. This is leagues away from an ideal conclusion to his and Moriarty’s rivalry, but even if Moriarty has ‘technically’ won, he has played clumsily indeed. There is the cowardice of drugged darts—or so Sherlock surmises on the basis of the blank space between walking through Regents with John and awaking here—which could not possibly have been anticipated or avoided, and thus were a miserable failure if Moriarty had really wished to demonstrate his intellectual superiority. But the main event in Moriarty’s stupidity is that this is presumably part of the criminal’s endeavor to “burn the heart out of Sherlock,” and if he really thinks that forcing John to kill him—and probably torture him a bit along the way—is the most effective means to accomplish that end, then Moriarty is a far greater idiot than Sherlock had initially believed. 

Well, if he must die—and there is no denying his chest compresses most uncomfortably in anticipation, though he most certainly _does_ deny that the stinging in his eyes are tears attempting to emerge—it is really quite nice of Moriarty permit him to go out with the conviction that he has been the better player, even if Moriarty has forced his hand in the end.

That’s when Moriarty’s voice echoes into the pool.

“Really dearest, I’m rather offended. Your pet’s stupidity is to be expected, but I didn’t think _you_ would underestimate me so severely.”

“Oh?” Sherlock replies. He mentally curses himself for the inane response, but he can’t let Moriarty know that he’s gotten it all wrong.

“Come now, Sherlock, if that’s the best you can come up with you really have no right passing judgement on _my_ intellect. I’m not going to make him kill you,”—Sherlock stiffens and John abruptly straightens, his hold on the gun steadying somewhat—“I’m not going to make him do anything at all. I’m going to give him a choice. There is one bullet in that gun, and he decides whether to use it to end you, or himself.”

If he was clear-headed enough to compare the two and capable of emotions beyond pure terror, Sherlock would have thought it vaguely amusing that he had identified the fading drugs as genuinely obstructing his brain functions. They were nothing compared to the cloying emptiness that is driving all but a muffled scream from his mind. 

With some still-functioning corner of his mind he forces himself to analyze John. There is far too much evidence for Sherlock to doubt which course John will be inclined to choose, but he searches desperately for some uncertainty, some hesitation he can exploit. But John has straightened and steadied, all hint of tremor gone, and of all things there is a smile playing at the corners his mouth, though his eyes are sad.

“Just one condition,” Moriarty’s sing-song cuts through the fog, and Sherlock had never expected to be glad to hear that voice, but this couldn’t possibly be worse and maybe . . . “before the pet decides, you my dear have fifteen minutes to use your sexy voice to magic him into making the choice you desire. Only don’t be boring, or there will be penalties.”

Time. Moriarty has given him time. It isn't much to work with, but it will be enough, has to be enough. If only his head would stop pounding, and his chest didn’t feel as if it were on fire—

“Breath, Sherlock.” John speaks for the first time, gentle and achingly affectionate in a way Sherlock has never heard, and Sherlock realizes he hadn’t breathed since Moriarty pronounced his plan. He gasps in air with his eyes closed, because he has already given away too much. He needs to be a blank slate, to be able to paint himself in whatever brush would be most effective for the most important fifteen minutes of his life.

After twenty seconds—an unacceptable loss of time—he opens his eyes, assuming a closed mask of cold self-disgust.

“That was tedious,” he intones. “The feeling of not being in control can have . . . unfortunate effects. However, as we are in complete agreement over what is to come next, I need no longer concern myself.”

“Are we?” John cocks an eyebrow with a mildness of curiosity which is remarkably unfitted to the circumstances.

“Naturally. The one saving grace of your otherwise all-encompassing idiocy has always been your recognition of myself as your superior in every matter of importance. You’re such a good little pet”—Sherlock channels every ounce of his considerable disgust for the appellation in hopes that John will misinterpret its object—“you understand that the skills, usefulness, and needs of the owner always take precedence over those of the owned.” Sherlock’s mind is racing ahead, trying to ignore the desperate wish that he he’d had time to plan in favor of pouring all his energies into lining up ways to dig into John’s insecurities and make himself the most insufferable git imaginable. As much as he loathes the idea of John despising him it is the best plan he has come up with, and on the whole anything that might reduce John’s guilt in the aftermath is wholly desirable.

The only real issue with the plan is that John is laughing softly—actually chuckling as if he finds the whole matter really rather amusing.

“Really Sherlock, you’re usually better at lying than this. You’re the one who taught me that a lie should always be disguised with the truth. Not that I don’t think there’s a thread of truth in it, but it really does help if you believe it.”

Sherlock shivers. If John insists on being perceptive today of all days—then, in the shambles of his first plan John’s statement registers in his mind, and anger abruptly flares. “A thread of truth?” he bites out. “John Hamish Watson, if you dare . . . if you dare make your choice because of some asinine inferiority complex—”

John is smiling that sad smile again, answering softly, “Sherlock, that’s—“

But Sherlock has started with a revelation. Why is he trying to lie? It is the simple truth that had led him to his glaringly obvious conclusion, and if he can just make John see . . . “Shut up, John,” he snaps. “You have five minutes. You are going to tell me who you think you are and what you think I am, then I am going to correct you and explain why your intended course of action is absurd.”

John, who really is reacting to everything in the most absurd manner, looks oddly touched. “Alright then,” he takes a deep breath. “We’ll get me out of the way first.” Sherlock flinches, and John grimaces sympathetically. “Right. Sorry. So, yeah. Um . . .”

“Hurry up,” Sherlock growls, and John has the audacity to look amused again.

“Right. So in sum, I’m a washed up army doctor with an adrenaline addiction. If you want more detail, I’d like to think I’m a decent specimen of humanity, but as a soldier and a doctor and a detective’s sidekick, I’ve made a lot of decisions. About others, I mean. Their lives. Choices that determine the span of their life. Sometimes about whether its me or them who will see the next day. Obviously, up to this point I’ve always chosen my life over theirs. They were all doing a crap job with theirs, but. And sometimes I enjoyed it. Taking theirs.”

He is silent for a few seconds. “I don’t know whether I’d change any of those decisions—at least the big ones. Still. Every time I live because someone else has died, every time I make a bad call and someone is gone because of it, my life seems to become less. Less deserving, I mean. More due for . . . payment. I nearly thought the time for retribution had come in the months after my deployment. I could no longer rationalize it all with the thought that at least I was saving more lives than I was losing or taking. And then—” 

John’s eyes had been fixed on gun in his hand, but he raises them now to Sherlock, and breaks off with a smirk. “You can stop with the death glare, you’re coming into the story now.” His voice lowers. “You become the story. Because you, Sherlock. You gave me a reason to keep on. You gave me the cases, and suddenly I was saving lives again, even if I was also back to making choices that effected the continuation of others. But then, I was saving your life, occasionally. I may be a jaw-droppingly boring man who generally splits his time between tagging along uselessly and watching crap telly, but I was in some small way responsible for your continued existence. And as long as I could have any tangible effect on your protection, it was ridiculous to think of repayment. Because you are far more important than indefinable debts.” 

Abruptly John tilts his head upward, eyes fixating on the far corner of the room. And now, of all times, his voice drops to that husky whisper it only adopts in the wake of his strongest emotions. “It was just as well, too, because all of a sudden I didn’t want to pay up. Because the world was fascinating again, all of it, and I wanted to stay. To stay with the world, and the cases. And you. Just to—to exist in the same sphere that you do.”

John shakes himself slightly, then shifts his gaze to Sherlock. “You, Sherlock Holmes. You—well, this is the hard part. How do I—?” his eyes narrow curiously. “I’ve wondered for some time whether you think it’s the persona that I—am drawn to. The show. And it’s part of the package, certainly. I’ve gotten all sorts of enjoyment from it. But its not that. It’s not even your hulking brain, exactly, though I adore it and would bloody miss it if anything were to happen.” John shivers at the thought, but continues. “It’s just . . . you. You with your curiosity and boredom and your daily fight just to survive in a world which functions on entirely different terms than you do. You with your rudeness and attempts to shut yourself off and all the hulking emotions you’re always denying to yourself as much as anyone else. The experiments and the body parts in the fridge and your love of justice and care for the innocent that you hide with the fact that you fucking love your job. The way you carved out that job and remained yourself in a world that didn’t used to have room for either. As a bonus, you’re sodding gorgeous, you know that? But it really is a bonus and not an essential because you’re you and—fuck it. I’m supposed to be the writer, but you’re the one with the words. Not that I can’t go on for a great deal longer, because—“

“Shut up,” Sherlock whispers. “No time. My turn.”

John stops and nods, looking suddenly tense and anxious, as if Sherlock might say something worse than the idiotic coals John has heaped on his own head. Perhaps Sherlock will. God knows he hasn’t the faintest idea what he’s about to say. It’s all too much—far too much. Under ordinary circumstances he’d have interrupted John a hundred times over, only right now he needed the data, but—

What to begin with? The infuriating inanity of John’s self-assessment? The revelation that Sherlock’s insults and neglect were probable factors in their construction? The terrifying confirmation that John had been on the verge of suicide when Sherlock first met him—Sherlock had always suspected, but to hear it said—and the breathtaking declaration that Sherlock is partially responsible for having saved the bravest and kindest and wisest human being in the universe? Or the overwhelming sensation of having been seen by John in a way he had never imagined, even if the man has missed nearly everything of importance?

“Tick tock, I’m getting bored!” Moriarty sings out, and Sherlock leaps forward into speech, beginning with anger because that is the easiest emotion to work with, and because getting John upset with him might help matters. 

“Idiot!” he barks, and John flinches, looking oddly as if he had anticipated such a response. But Sherlock ploughs forward, there is no time to consider the implications of that reaction. “I’m going to start with you, because I don’t know how to speak of myself without reference to you anymore, and because you are not allowed to hold on to such an idiotic self-image for a moment longer.” Now John looks properly shocked, so apparently that wasn’t what he’d expected Sherlock to be upset about. But then what—irrelevant. Stop asking. Keep talking.

“You, John Hamish Watson, are a doctor and a soldier. In other words, you are a savior. Do you hear me, Watson? A savior. I don’t care who has died in your stead, but all I have to say of them is good riddance—if they put their lives above yours they deserved it, do you hear me? And besides, I did know a few of them over these past years, and to a man they were the scum of the earth even before that supreme offense, and a danger to many besides you. If you don’t regret the other lives you have taken, I am quite confident they were the same. Because you, John, take lives only if you are saving others. And if there are any blots on your record, any uncertain calls, then I _don’t care_ , because you are here, and John Hamish Watson soldier-doctor I—“ Sherlock cuts himself off. The words he had once resolved never to speak are strangely eager to emerge now that he has determined the benefit would outweigh the harm, but the moment isn’t right.

“You described yourself as ‘jaw-droppingly boring.’ Ha! Impressive, really, how you managed to describe nearly everyone on the planet besides yourself. Boring people do not have the courage to keep caring about every sodding idiot who is suffering when they have spent their lives in close proximity to death and have seen the worst of humanity. Boring people do not hand their phones to a complete stranger. They do not move in with a probable mad-man after five minutes acquaintance, and they definitely do not start chasing criminals with him on the second day and kill to protect him and giggle at crime scenes! Boring people aren’t sunlight and warmth and bundles of rage all at once, and they do not spend more than five minutes in my company without screaming or insulting or despising. They do not choose a life of hardship and danger for the sake of others or themselves. They certainly don’t get me to watch cringe-worthy television or inexplicably fascinate me when they make a glass of tea. And they don’t make me feel like life is—is—they’re not you, John!

Sherlock pauses, recognizing what might be perceived as a flaw in his reasoning, then plunges forward again. “I understand that all of this, especially the doctor-solder bit, may not paint you as the sort of person who would preserve his own life at the expense of his friend’s. It is true, you are not that sort of man. And that is precisely why you will do what I want—but first I have to correct your perceptions of myself.

“I confess I was . . . surprised by your assessment. You saw things I believed myself to have effectively concealed. But it was nevertheless woefully inadequate and characteristically romanticized. You clearly did not pay attention when I informed you that I am not a hero. Not a personal hero, and not a hero of the people. I am simply an unwieldy brain with rampant emotions who is trying to survive. I won’t pretend I am displeased that my endeavors commonly prove useful to some, but my default mode is destruction. I destroy myself, and I destroy anyone who comes in contact with me. That John, is the reason no one but you has ever stayed. It isn’t because I am some lofty and misunderstood soul, it is because I hurt them. I may help some with what I do, but who I am, my selfhood, _me_ , only wounds. Or at least, it used to.

“You, as ever, are the one exception. But that is because you, soldier-doctor, value the well-being of those around you above your own, and because your only unforgivable fault is your failure to perceive that your being is the most essential in the universe. And so when you have only yourself to take care of, you deteriorate. That is why I was able to help you. Not because of any merit on my part, but because I destroy everything and above all destroy myself, and so when you’re with me you always have someone to heal and to save. Also, you really do have a massive adrenaline addiction, which is less praiseworthy and for which I have thanked every god in whom I do not believe ever since I recognized how much it would contribute to keeping you by my side. 

“Because in all my desperate, destructive selfishness I needed you to stay, John. You didn’t know me before I met you. Alternating between frenzied activity and cocaine because if I didn’t fill or temporarily disable my mind it would be drawn to the silence that could stop the constant tearing so easily and painlessly if only I handled the gun or the pills carefully enough. You were right, John, I am a volcano of emotions. But I don’t carry them like you do, warm and strong and brave. Because I’m a coward, and I’ve spent my whole life running from the pain of them. I was off the cocaine when you met me—I occasionally managed it for short periods—but the call of the silence was growing each day, and I knew it wouldn’t be much longer before I returned to the drugs.

“But then there was you, doctor-soldier, savior, and you brought healing. I still don’t understand it, but when you are there the tearing subsides. It’s not gone, but it’s better. And you staying became so much more important than the cocaine, and death lost its appeal because you wouldn’t be there, and I stopped destroying those around me as much, though I still did it quite enough, partly because you didn’t like it but also because the storm was calmer. There were even a few moments when I acted like a healer, though that was you not me, and I have no fucking clue how you did it but it’s just you, and John Hamish Watson doctor-soldier, I love you!”

Those last words were almost shouted at John, but even as he speaks them Sherlock averts his eyes, not wanting to see his reaction yet. The next words are barely above a whisper. 

“That’s why you have to choose me. Because if you do choose me it will be a simple end. You will only be holding my hand and leading me into a long-desired peace. But if you choose yourself, you will be wounding me far worse than I could ever have wounded myself. You will be destroying my purpose and whatever small goodness I possess and all that I love at once. And I won’t even be able to turn to cocaine or to death, because if I do what was the point of your . . . your end? And of course there wouldn’t be a point, but I’d have to pretend because it would be all I could do for you, so you would destroy me and I would destroy myself, and there would be no escape, not even a reprieve. And that doesn’t even matter, because what matters is you and the plain fact that you are the best thing in the universe and nothing could be worse than your destruction. But I’d never convince you of that, so I’ve focused on what will matter to you, because saving others is infused in your pores: like it or not, my John, you cannot save me by destroying yourself.”

Sherlock can’t look up to John’s face, unable to face the refusal he will inevitably read in John’s eyes. He stares unseeing at the bottom right corner of the room, trembling, until Moriarty airs an exaggerated yawn and Sherlock snaps his eyes abruptly to John’s face.

For the entirety of six seconds, Sherlock sees only one thing: John is crying. Finally he takes in the rest: wide eyes, white face, hand holding the gun trembling.

Sherlock’s breath hitches, and he is torn between despair and desperate hope. Despair because the truth has worked where the lie had failed. John is horrified by Sherlock. As he should be. But while that is a vicious cut, it would be worth it a thousand times over if only—and aside from the tears, John now is the mirror image of what he was fifteen eternal minutes ago, when he had believed that he would be forced to kill Sherlock. Which might mean, should mean . . .

“Fuck you, Sherlock,” John breathes. “It was going to be so easy—the easiest choice of my life—not that I wanted to die, but given the alternative—fuck you.” John folds forward and pulls at his hair with his free hand, and Sherlock breathes a shallowly as possible, fearing that any movement might break the spell.

“Five minutes to make your choice, Jonny boy,” Moriarty drawls, “or I’ll have my sniper aim somewhere . . . uncomfortable.”

John jerks to his feet but sways on the spot, and Sherlock wonders whether he might collapse before he takes an unsteady step forward. “Listen, Sherlock,” he rasps in a voice that seems unable to emerge as anything beyond a forced whisper, “if, _if_ I do this, it won't be because your self-esteem is a fucking joke. The way you described yourself is bloody nonsense, but—“

Then he does collapse to his knees, joints meeting concrete with a crack that makes Sherlock wince. 

“But I love you. Just now I wish I didn’t, because if I’d never loved this way I’d have thought you were speaking gibberish. But I fucking understand. I get it. Doing what I want would be taking the easy way out for myself and condemning you to the pain. It would be selfish. And I swear, if you were unbound I would fight you for the privilege of dying for you, but you are powerless and how can I—?”

John drops his hands to the floor and hangs his head, drawing in desperate, gasping breaths, and Sherlock’s heart thuds in an entirely new way. John isn’t going to die for him. And he loves him. Sherlock told him everything and yet John will live and John loves him. If Sherlock must die, he cannot imagine a better end.

With the time pressing close, John’s prostration doesn’t last long. But when he stands his face has become steely, almost threatening, and he takes a single step forward. 

“Tell me that you mean it, Sherlock,” he commands. “Tell me that you want this with every fiber of your being, that it would be hell to watch me put a bullet in my own head and comparative heaven to—to. Convince me, or I will shoot.” As he speaks, John releases the safety and places the gun firmly against his own temple.

Sherlock jerks forward impulsively, straining against the bonds, dilating eyes fixed on John’s finger resting all too casually on the trigger guard. He doesn’t speak, because he has said his words. John doesn’t need to hear him speak, he needs to see it, and Sherlock hopes desperately that for once in his life John will observe, that he won’t invent what he wants to see in Sherlock’s expression.

“Oh,” John breathes, and a fleeting glance at John’s eyes tells Sherlock that he has seen, but John isn’t moving the gun from his head, so close to his desired outcome that he can’t bear to remove it. Then, as Sherlock stares, John’s finger moves slowly from the guard towards the trigger.

Sherlock screams and strains so violently against his bonds that they slice into his wrists. In that moment he would have torn his hands off if it were possible and gave him some chance of wrenching that gun away from John’s head. 

With a strangled cry John drops the gun and surges forward, hands reaching for Sherlock’s bleeding wrists, but a red spot appears on John’s forehead, and Sherlock cries, “don’t touch me!” John understands, of course he does, and halting his progress he falls again to his knees, this time mere centimeters away from Sherlock.

“Tick, tock, one minute on the clock!” Moriarty intones, and John reaches slowly behind himself to retrieve the gun from the floor.

Both men are silent, their words spent, as John raises the gun in a trembling hand towards Sherlock’s mouth.

And Sherlock, gazing at John with something very like awe, opens his mouth to receive it.

Once it is nestled within him, Sherlock wraps his lips and tongue tightly around the cold metal, grasping it like the indescribable gift it is and offering what small steadiness he can to the frightened man who he cannot touch.

And somehow, after all the horrors, it is the tragedy of being unable to touch John in his last moments that finally draws tears to his eyes.

“I love you,” John whispers as he pulls the trigger.

The gun clicks. It does not fire.

Sherlock tenses, uncertain what to make of this development, and John collapses to the floor, wrapping himself around Sherlock’s legs and the wooden slats to which they are tied, giving himself over to wracking sobs.

“Come now, Sherlock,” Moriarty’s voice croons, “I did tell you not to underestimate me. Did you really think I’d give up my chance to play with you so easily? Nooo, I have a story to tell, you see, and I simply needed more data. You provided gads of details! All depressingly sentimental, of course—you’re lucky I’m a forgiving sort, or I’d have shot you both on the spot. But don’t worry, I still want to play! You’ll be seeing my pretty face soon enough, dearest, I promise you . . .”


	2. The Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five long minutes pass before John stills, and another five before he has risen unsteadily to his knees and begun to work at Sherlock’s bonds. He accomplishes the task without once coming in contact with Sherlock’s skin. When one of his hands is unbound Sherlock moves cautiously to brush at the tear-tracks still streaking John’s face, but John flinches violently away.
> 
> That is when Sherlock knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My original story idea ended with the first chapter, but I couldn't quite bear to leave our boys hanging after ladling that level of trauma on them. This chapter is the result.
> 
> Thank you SO much for the kudos and the comments on chapter 1! This story is the first I've worked up the courage to post, and the realization that at least a few people read it and liked it gave me the encouragement I needed to keep working.

Five long minutes pass before John stills, and another five before he has risen unsteadily to his knees and begun to work at Sherlock’s bonds. He accomplishes the task without once coming in contact with Sherlock’s skin. When one of his hands is unbound Sherlock moves cautiously to brush at the tear-tracks still streaking John’s face, but John flinches violently away.

That is when Sherlock knows.

Once John’s trembling hands have finally undone the knots, he is forced to allow Sherlock to support him to the street and into a cab. But once they are inside he pulls his feet up, wraps his arms around his legs, and buries his head between his knees, making himself as small as possible as he presses up against the door of the cab.

He looks like a small child, frightened and indifferent to whether others see it in a way Sherlock struggles to reconcile with his mental construction of the man. Isn't Sherlock supposed to be the childish one? But then, childish is hardly the word to describe this. 

Sherlock watches John as unobtrusively as possible, and makes his plan.

Despite his apparent obliviousness to the world around him, John is out the door the instant the cab stops in front of Baker Street, practically running through the door and uncharacteristically leaving Sherlock to pay the driver. 

Sherlock tosses cash at the driver then sprints after John, reaching the landing just in time to hear the door to John’s room slam.

He feels a flash of panic, pristinely captured images of John pressing a gun to his own temple parading through Sherlock’s mind. But before he can react, John’s door opens fractionally and his gun—emptied of all ammunition by the sound of it—clatters down the stairs.

Sherlock lunges for it with rather unnecessary speed, then pauses as he makes a quick mental review of the objects in John’s room, ensuring that it contains nothing else sufficiently weapon-like. Then he moves into his room, leaving the door cracked open. He places the gun beneath the mattress and perches on the edge, waiting.

It is six hours later—3am—when Sherlock hears John’s too-heavy footsteps descending from his room. Sherlock stands, waiting for John to reach the landing before emerging and moving to the end of the hallway.

“Why?” he asks softly, gently. 

John pauses, not bothering set down his packed bags, and sighs tiredly. “Please—don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t make me say what you already know.”

“But I don’t know.”

“What? You need the precise details of my mental state so you can ‘use your sexy voice to magic me into making the choice you desire?’ ”

“No,” Sherlock whispers. “I don’t know how I can ever ask anything of you again, after today.”

John flinches. “Right. I see.”

“No, you don’t!” Sherlock’s voice is gaining urgency. “I can’t ask you because now I know that if you think it will do me good you will give it, even if the cost to yourself is far too great!”

“The cost to— what are you— Sherlock, I shot you!” John grits out the words, jerking his head further from Sherlock’s direction.

“And I,” Sherlock responds, returning to the still, gentle whisper, “have never loved or respected you more than when you pulled that trigger.”

John drops the bags and sits heavily on the floor, head in hands. “You can’t,” he rasps. “you can’t want me to stay.”

Breathing irregular, Sherlock crouches down, resisting the urge to move close and offer comfort. A recoiling part of him wonders whether the best gift he can offer to John might not be to retreat to his room and let his life walk unharried out the door. But he needs to know. For John’s sake. He just has to communicate more clearly.

“Listen, John. No, I don’t mean that—you don’t have to do anything, and I don’t mean to ask anything of you, it’s just I—no, you—” He pulls in a shaky breath. He has to be calm, for John. At least, he has to pretend. 

“I don’t know whether you are leaving for yourself or for me. And I need to know which one it is, because if it’s for you I won’t say another word, and I’ll let you walk out that door and—” his voice trembles, “I won’t look for you. Ever.”

John turns to him then, face blank and a little unbelieving.

“I could do it,” Sherlock grits out. “For you, because of what you did for me, I could. I’d have to.” He is met by silence and re-averted eyes. “So. Is it for you or me?”

John shakes his head. “How could it be?”

“I . . . I’m not sure which one you’re asking about, so I’ll explain both. You could think you are leaving for me because you chose to shoot me, and for some—” with a deep inhale he stops himself from saying ‘idiotic’—“misguided reason you feel guilty or think you’re a danger to me. Or you could be leaving for yourself. Because I went too far this time. I demanded too great a sacrifice. Even if you—you love me, you understand now that I’m too selfish, too manipulative, and you need to get away. For your own sake.”

John is staring at him properly now, looking a great deal more than a little disbelieving this time. “Sherlock,” he answers, “I shot you.”

Mercifully avoiding a weak attempt at humor along the lines of, “yes, I remember that,” Sherlock stays silent. 

“I know what you think you’re doing, wanting me to stay,” John’s voice is rising, “But I pulled the trigger, Sherlock, and you can’t just move on from that. I put a gun in your mouth and pulled the trigger, with every intention of walking out of that pool alive when I could have saved you instead. Nevermind that you asked for it, nevermind that it was fucking torture for me, I shot you and there is no recovering. Every time I touch a gun some part of you will wonder whether you might be the 

intended target, if I ever touch you you’ll flinch away, and one day you’ll come to your senses and remember that I shot you and I—I just can’t, Sherlock.

“But—” Sherlock stands slowly and takes a hesitant step forward, “you don’t _want_ to leave?”

“Of course I bloody don’t want to leave!” John is back on his feet and shouting properly now, but his voice is tinged with panic, and his backward step maintains the distance between them. “Didn’t you hear a word I said back there at the pool? You’re everything, Sherlock! But now that I know I am capable—and Moriarty—and I—” his voice cracks, “ I can’t watch you realizing that you don’t want me anymore.” And all at once he is crying agin.

It is only the second time Sherlock has seen John cry, and it is a terrible and beautiful sight. No longer constrained by the terrifying press of time, Sherlock loses himself for a moment in starting, memorizing the vision before John becomes cognizant of the tears tracking his cheeks and abruptly jerks his head away. 

Regaining himself somewhat, Sherlock gives a sharp nod. “I think I understand. And I will keep to my word. I won’t try to convince you to stay. I simply wish to ask one question and present you with two facts. May I?”

John doesn’t respond, so Sherlock continues. “First, a question. Do you trust me, John?”

John’s nod is short, military and instantaneous. Sherlock has to take several deliberate breaths before he can continue. 

“Good. That’s—good. So. The first fact: I want you, and I always will want you. As much as before. More than before.”

John whimpers lowly.

“Second: this is not a command, nor exactly a request. Simply another fact. I wish you would come to bed with me, John.”

John flinches visibly, and Sherlock quickly raises his hands in a position of surrender and steps back. “Not for sex! Or kissing, or even touching. I just want you to be there. So I know you haven’t left. And so you know that I want you near me.”

John lets out a strangled chuckle. “Sherlock. If I climb in your bed I will never again work up the courage to leave.”

 _Perfect!_ Sherlock wants to shout. _You would be saving me all over again_ , he wants to declare. _I love you!_ he won’t let himself say. There is a very large part of him that longs to simply manhandle John into bed with him, to wrap his limbs around the struggling form of his flatmate until the smaller man has no strength left and their exhausted bodies sink into each other like they have always been meant to . . . 

“You will always be welcome there,” he whispers. “And here. Regardless of whether you’re in my bed. Always.” Then he turns and walks quickly into his room, leaving the door open.

Sherlock falls face-down on the right side of the bed, burying his head in the pillow and halting his breath, willing the pressure of the physical deprivation to build in his chest and mute the gaping emptiness of the wait that might be moments, might be years, might be the remainder of his life.

When the blood is pounding in his ears, when his chest is burning, when he is seconds away from being forced to gasp in lungfuls of air, he feels the mattress dip under a new weight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm nearly done with the third and final chapter, so it should be posted tomorrow—maybe even tonight!


	3. Text Thread Between Sherlock and John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day after Moriarty is acquitted—as depicted in the BBC Sherlock episode The Reichenbach Fall—John receives a text.

Sherlock 7:30am  
Good morning, love.  
SH

John 7:31am  
WHERE ARE YOU, SHERLOCK?? HOW DARE YOU DISAPPEAR THE MORNING AFTER MORIARTY WAS RELEASED FROM CUSTODY??

Sherlock 7:33  
Hmm. It appears that I have made the correct choice.  
SH

John 7:35  
Sherlock . . . 

John 7:45  
Sherlock?

Sherlock 7:50  
It seems likely that it will soon be necessary for me to fake my own death.  
SH

John 7:50  
Um. Okay.

Sherlock 7:52  
I will be ‘dead’ for an extended period—a few months at the least.  
SH

John 8:00  
And?

Sherlock 8:05  
And I didn’t want to tell you my death was fake. It would have been safer. For you.  
SH

John 8:05  
SHERLOCK!!!

Sherlock 8:06  
But I owe you a favor I can never repay.  
SH

Sherlock 8:06  
So.  
SH

Sherlock 8:10  
Care to join me?  
SH

John 8:10  
Oh god, yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! Thank you over and again to everyone who read, especially those who left kudos, and ESPECIALLY those who commented! You all kept me going. 
> 
> I hope you had at least 1/10 as much fun reading this fic as I had writing it!

**Author's Note:**

> If you read this far, thank you!! Any comments would earn you my eternal gratitude. Critiques are welcome!


End file.
